


Opia

by lavhonlim



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, its a holes au, some 90s homophobia sprinkled in, there just wasn't enough spicy texan angst in this fandom so im fixing it, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavhonlim/pseuds/lavhonlim
Summary: Poe huffs a breath, shakes his head. “Did no one tell you what we do here?”“Yeah, we build character, whatever the fuck that mea–”“No. We dig holes.”Armitage wants to laugh, but Poe’s face is strangely hardened. The rest of the boys look on with something sickeningly close to pity.“We dig holes?” He repeats blankly.--After being indicted for a crime he didn't commit, Armitage Hux is shipped away to Camp Green Lake, a correctional summer program deep in the Texan desert.Featuring a mysterious Warden, a beautiful outcast known only as "Solo", and a secret that Armitage is desperate to bury.(the holes au fic that absolutely no one asked for)
Relationships: (in the background) - Relationship, Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 7
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say to redeem myself so uh...here you go.
> 
> And to be clear, Solo and Armitage are both 17-18, and will be 18 by the time smut rolls around. ;)

Artmitage Hux is cursed.

At least, that’s what his father is always telling him. It would explain everything rather conveniently: his mother’s death, his father’s abrupt unemployment and subsequent relocation, his own lifelong inability to amount to anything useful. Armitage supposes it’s easier to blame the ancient curse than to examine his own shortcomings at great length (as if he doesn’t lie awake most nights doing just that).  


It was the Hux family curse that brought him to Texas, indeed, to the very bus where he sits now, watching through a grimy window as the desert passes in broad strokes of umber and yellow and brown. There are no other boys in the school bus, just Armitage and the driver, who has barely glanced at Armitage from beneath the brim of his ball cap. It’s silent, save for a chewing noise from up front that Armitage suspects is tobacco– do people really still do that?– and the hard clacks of rocks beneath the bus’s tires. Just as well. Armitage does not intend to make any friends, or even speak at all if he can help it.  


His reflection is a ghostly layer over the landscape outside, staring back at him with dead, icy eyes. He blinks once, noticing for the first time the shapes of buildings forming on the horizon, just above his left ear, then sighs and turns away. He wants to relish his last taste of freedom, or something poetic like that, but all he can seem to focus on is the hollow feeling in his gut, and his irritation at the driver’s chewing noises.

\--

The sun is high in the sky, hot and unforgiving, when Armitage steps off the bus. He rolls his duffle bag onto one shoulder, shifts his weight and then stills, feigning nonchalance. It’s not an entirely unbelievable act, though it’s hard won. What greets him as he squints against the sun is very possibly his personal hell.  


There are several low, single story buildings scattered around the grounds. Boys, seemingly mostly his age, trudge into and out of them. They’re all wearing some form of an atrocious orange jumpsuit, though a few wear them with the sleeves rolled up, or even with the top folded down and the sleeves tied around their waists. Armitage can’t help but picture how laughable he’ll look with his fiery hair in that getup. His saving grace is, ironically, the dust that seems to cling to every surface– though it must be uncomfortable on the boys’ sweat soaked skin, it does dampen the jumpsuits into a more acceptable orange-brown. Perhaps it will settle into his hair, he thinks, taming his one pronounced feature until he himself becomes unnoticeable. Perhaps that’s how he’ll survive this place.  


To his surprise, there is no chain linked fence or watchtower looming over them. Just the open expanse of the desert, an endless flatland, cracked and baking beneath the sun. A sign swings on rusty hinges, draws his attention to its peeling painted message: Welcome to Camp Green Lake!  


A voice, gravely and slurred with a thick Texan drawl, shakes him from his thoughts.  


“So, you're… what kind of goddamned name is Armitage?” The man is walking towards him quickly, glancing down at his clipboard with a furrowed brow before peering back up at him. 

He had pronounced “Armitage” incorrectly, of course, ending with a “tag”. It happens all the time. Armitage hates it.  


“Uh, Hux.” He says, adding when the man quirks an eyebrow, “You can call me Hux.”  


“Right, well, Hux, you’re late.” Armitage hardly thinks that’s his fault, but the man is already turning away, saying over his shoulder, “Come with me.”  


Armitage is nothing if not composed, but the man’s brisk pace combined with the noon sun is causing him to quickly lose his control. By the time they arrive at a large canvas tent, sweat is trickling down the back of his neck and beading at his temples, and he feels as though a thin layer of dust has already begun to plaster his skin. He wants nothing more than to take a shower.  


“This is your tent, Tent B.” Says the man, lifting the flap for Armitage to enter. The inside is unexpectedly spacious, with enough room for five or six cots and a few trunks. It’s empty, though he doubts that will last long.  


The man gestures at the only bed that has sheets folded in a pile on top of the mattress instead of strewn across it. “That one’s yours,” he says, marking something on his clipboard. “You missed lunch, so you’ll have to wait for dinner. Five pm, sharp. The Warden doesn’t tolerate tardiness. Clothes are in the trunk. We dig at sunrise.” And with that, he’s gone, having never even mentioned his name.  


Armitage moves robotically towards his cot, unsure of what else to do with himself, and drops his bag next to the trunk. Though he’s inclined to appreciate the man’s curtness, eager for solitude, he’s left unsettled. Who was the Warden? Armitage isn’t stupid enough to believe that Camp Green Lake is what the brochure had gleefully described as a “character building camp for misguided youth”, but certainly this wasn’t a prison. That was the whole point of being here: to be not in prison. And what had the man meant by that last bit, “we dig at sunrise”? Was that some sort of expression around here?  


His thoughts are interrupted when the flap lifts, and two boys enter the tent. They’re talking loudly, joking between themselves, but fall immediately silent upon noticing Armitage. The shorter one, with dark, curly hair, is the first to step forward.  


“Hey, you must be new. I’m Poe Dameron.” He crosses the tent and holds out a hand, flashing a bright smile, too good to be true. Armitage doesn’t buy it for a second.  


“Hux.” He replies, shaking the proffered hang noncommittally. Poe’s smile dims.  


“Um, okay, Hux.” Apparently thrown off his game, he pauses before turning back to his friend, who offers a wave. “That’s Finn. We live here, in Tent B.”  


“Yes, I had assumed as much.” Armitage realizes he’s being unnecessarily short, but something about the inescapable heat and the impossible light in Poe’s eyes is making him want to curl in on himself, to disappear. Every word feels like a dangerous omission, and he refuses to give any part of himself to this place. To these people.  


Without much else to say, Poe just nods and steps back to join his friend, eyeing Armitage warily. It’s for the best, probably, if they keep their distance. Or at least that’s what Armitage thinks as he turns to change into one of those terrible orange jumpsuits.  


Maybe it’s even true. He is cursed, after all.

\--

Armitage arrives on time for dinner, but only because he follows some distance behind the boys in Tent B when they all leave in a pack. He wonders if they’ve been here long enough to track the length of shadows, or if they have some sort of internal clock set specifically for the events of the day here. He hopes never to know the time, if that’s so.  


The dining hall makes no great impression, though Armitage supposes that’s the point. The boys sit on picnic style benches along long rows of tables, hunched over bowls of some gray tinged gruel. True to Texas style, the floor, walls and ceiling are all covered in aged wood. It’s really rather drab.  


Armitage follows the boys from Tent B to the food line, where he’s given a bowl that is promptly filled with that… porridge? His stomach flips, and he briefly wonders if this mysterious Warden is legally allowed to let him starve to death.  


Unsure of whether they’re supposed to sit with their tent, or where else he would even sit, Armitage places himself at the same table as the rest of Tent B. To be safe, he tries to leave a little extra room between himself and the group.  


He makes it almost through all of dinner without saying a word, mostly moving his gruel around with his fork and half-listening to Poe’s animated storytelling. For someone stuck in this desert hellhole, Poe seems ridiculously happy, and has a ridiculous number of stories to tell. The other boys are wide eyed, soaking in his tales of bravery and, Armitage thinks, stupidity. He manages not to draw anyone’s attention until the sun is dipping toward the horizon, until he turns to admire the sunset and instead finds an anomaly. At the table across the way from their own, one boy sits by himself, eating in silence. Dark hair falls to his shoulders, shielding him, and he sits hunched over like he’s something small despite the obvious bulk of muscle beneath his jumpsuit. Armitage had assumed everyone was meant to sit with their tent, or else with their friends, but no one even seems to glance at this one boy. It’s like he’s invisible.  


And the strangest thing is that he’s the most beautiful person Armitage has ever seen.  


Or, no, he would think that. But he doesn’t. He won’t. Thoughts like that are dangerous, especially now, especially here, where he will sleep in a tent with five other people and anyone could figure this… this thing out, if they just looked close enough. No, these thoughts that were maybe safe at home, under the covers, in the dark, cannot happen here.  


But then again, Armitage is cursed. And he never could control himself with things like this, anyhow.  


“Who’s that?” He asks, cutting Poe off in the middle of some story about a car he once stole. The table turns to blink owlishly at him.  


Poe is the first to recover from his shock, of course. “Who’s who?”  


“That,” Armitage replies, nodding his head toward the beauti– the boy across the way.  


“Oh, him,” says Poe, brow furrowing uncharacteristically. “That’s, um. Well, that’s–”  


“That’s Solo.” Finn cuts in, apparently to Poe’s great relief.  


Armitage resists the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. Honestly. “Well why is he alone?”  


No one seems eager to answer this question. Why doesn’t anyone say what they mean here? The Warden, the digging, and now a boy who seems to terrify everyone, though he couldn’t possibly overhear a word of their conversation.  


Eventually Finn breaks the silence, stating simply, “We don’t really talk to Solo, and he doesn’t talk to us. To anyone. He’s in Tent B too, you’ll see.”  


It sounds so strangely like a warning that Armitage only nods, turns back to his gruel. But the table is still silent, put off by this awkward interjection, and he figures he might as well try to find a few answers while the opportunity presents itself. He doubts anyone will be speaking to him, after this.  


“Earlier, uh,” he begins, and Poe actually tenses, “the guy with the clipboard said something about a Warden. Is that who runs this place?”  


The boys all relax visibly, grateful to move on from Solo. The Warden, it seems, is much safer ground.  


“Yeah, that’s Snoke.” Supplies a round-faced boy who appears to be years younger than Armitage himself. He looks out of place, with black hair falling neatly across his forehead and his spine a little too straight. Armitage wonders what he could have done to wind up here. “He’s in charge of everything, but you’ll never see him.”  


“If you’re lucky.” Adds Poe with a roguish smile. “They only take you to Snoke when you’ve really fucked up.”  


That does little to comfort Armitage, or even really answer the million questions running through his mind, but he doesn’t like the way the boys are now leaning toward him, inviting him in. He isn’t part of this, whatever their little compatriot group is. Stiffly, he nods and offers a weak “right”. There’s a beat, where Armitage supposes in another world he would scoot closer and confess the rather fucked up series of events that stuck him here. Instead, Poe just clears his throat and says, a little too loudly, “You boys wanna hear about the girlfriend who burned all my clothes?”. And that’s that.

\--

Sure enough, Solo is there in Tent B when they return from dinner. His cot is diagonally across from Armitage’s, wedged as close to the canvas wall as possible. He has no trunk, only a small foldout table beside the bed, where a pile of spare clothes rests. Just as the boys said, he doesn’t speak to anyone, doesn’t even look at Armitage, just quietly changes and slips under the covers. Armitage wonders if anyone would notice his absence if he just disappeared, if his belongings were left just like that, as unobtrusive as possible. He doesn’t like the answer that his gut supplies.  


The rest of the boys move like a single body, each set in the same routine. They strip off the ghastly jumpsuits, shake out the day’s dust, and peel away the white undershirts beneath, stuck to their skin with sweat. Armitage follows suit, trying desperately not to feel self conscious, but also facing the wall beside his cot in some attempt for privacy. The single light bulb which hangs from the ceiling by its wire is abruptly powered off, plunging them into darkness, and without anything else to do, Armitage resigns himself to lying back on his cot. Metal springs dig into his back uncomfortably, though more discomforting is the uneasy feeling in his chest. Whatever awaits him tomorrow, it starts at dawn, and he intends to be prepared. He drifts into a light, anxious sleep with that in mind: that he will survive this place, that the boys in Tent B, one boy in particular, will not make him weak.

It’s a wonderful mantra, even if he doesn’t entirely believe it.


	2. Chapter 2

The word “dawn” holds a certain meaning in Armitage’s head: something shimmering in gentle light, dew dripped and ripe. Here at Camp Green Lake, “dawn” has a very different meaning.

The sky is barely moving from inky black to deep navy when Armitage is jostled awake. He shivers, and then marvels at how cold the air has gone for a desert. Around him, the other boys of Tent B are dressing sluggishly. With a curt glance, he finds that even Poe is glassy-eyed, lacing his shoes with slow, robotic motions.

Rising from his bed (and trying to ignore the sudden twinge of the kinks above his shoulder blades), he again pulls on that truly atrocious jumpsuit. He imagines himself building a fire at home, when he’s done with his penance, and watching the ugly thing burn. There should at least be an alternative, for boys with hair like his.

He turns to grab his shoes from beneath the bed when something– someone– makes him pause. Solo is there, across the way, staring straight at him with those big, dark eyes. It hardly lasts a second; by the time Armitage has registered it, Solo has already blinked away, focusing on rolling the sleeves of his jumpsuit. But Armitage could swear it happened.

\--

He follows silently as everyone files out and across camp, the boys from the other tents merging behind them. The sky is still dark, and it’s hard to see more than ten feet ahead. The group stops at a small wooden shed, beside which stands (to Armitage’s great annoyance) the man who met him at the bus yesterday. He’s got a floppy sunhat on today, and a single strip of sunscreen streaking white down his nose. He’s still holding that stupid clipboard, the purpose of which Armitage has yet to understand. It’s a little hard to lose track of six boys clad in orange jumpsuits, here in the middle of the desert.

The man nods at them and then tilts his head toward the shed, not saying a word. He barely glances up from the clipboard at all. Finn steps forward and opens the shed, pulling out a shovel and handing it to Poe. He pulls out a second one for himself and then makes room for the next in line. Armitage is reminded vaguely of a scene in a movie he once saw, where the hero was forced by some nameless villain to dig his own grave. It sounds ridiculous, even rolling around in his mind, but then again, what else is there to dig out here? The world’s deepest well?

By virtue of his dedication to separating himself from the Tent B family, Armitage is last on line. As he reaches in to grab the last shovel, the man with the clipboard looks up long enough to smirk and click his tongue.

“Did I do something wrong?” Armitage asks, frowning. Maybe today he was just supposed to watch whatever operation is underway, and start actually working later on.

The man’s smirk only grows. “You got a lot to learn, new kid. That’s the longest one.”

Armitage blinks dumbly, looks down at the shovel in his hands. He’s not as tall as some of the others (almost as tall as Solo, his sluggish mind supplies unhelpfully), but he isn’t short, either. He can probably handle this shovel.

When he looks up again, the man is already walking away, towards a white pickup truck. Poe steps forward, despite the way Finn grips his sleeve as if to pull him back, and offers Armitage a sympathetic smile. 

“Canady’s an asshole,” he says quietly, “don’t let him get to you.”

“He’s not getting to me,” Armitage replies, then opts to cushion his curt response with a softer, “I just don’t understand what the big deal is. The shovel’s only, what, a foot longer than yours? I can handle it just fine.”

Poe huffs a breath, shakes his head. “Did no one tell you what we do here?”

“Yeah, we build character, whatever the fuck that mea–”

“No. We dig holes.”

Armitage wants to laugh, but Poe’s face is strangely hardened. The rest of the boys look on with something sickeningly close to pity.

“We dig holes?” He repeats blankly.

“Every day, from dawn till whenever you finish. The hole has to be as wide and deep as your shovel. So if you have a longer shovel….”

Armitage was already putting the pieces together, and can’t help but bristle as Poe pauses like he’s waiting for him to catch on.

“Yes, I see.” He snips. Clipboard man– what did Poe call him, Canady?– has started the truck and is pulling away. The rest of the boys begin to fill their canteens from a spigot beside the shed. 

Poe glances over his shoulder at them, then faces Armitage and says lowly, “Look, I’ll switch with you today. This is all new for you, it’s not fair.” He holds out his shovel, and moves to pull Armitage’s from his hand. Armitage instead steps back.

“Don’t bother. It’s fine.” He takes a breath, arranges his expression back to its default steely gaze. “I don’t need anyone worrying for me.”

Poe opens his mouth, likely to object with some golden-hearted line. Before he gets the chance, Finn calls his name, and he simply looks Armitage over once more and then turns to join  
the rest. If that last sad look was supposed to make Armitage feel guilty, Poe is unfortunately mistaken. Armitage won’t feel guilty for protecting himself from liabilities. Getting too close to these people, owing them any part of himself, simply cannot happen.

With that in mind, he follows Poe to the spigot, fills his canteen to the brim. When everyone begins to trudge toward the horizon, he trails silently behind.

\--

The boys move quickly across the “lake”, now little more than a sun-scorched flatland. Around a mile from camp, Armitage starts to notice the holes. They’re scattered and distant, at first, but they become so condensed that he has to walk with his eyes on the ground to avoid tripping into one. It seems to go on across the entire lake, just a tan stipe of desert beneath the sky, pockmarked with hundreds of uniform holes.

When they at last reach clear land, each group splits off, and Armitage follows the boys from Tent B. They all stand together, chatting quietly. He and Solo are the only ones standing apart, though they’re on opposite sides of the group, and Solo’s gaze is fixed on the ground. The darkness isn’t quite as thick now, and by dim moonlight Armitage swears he sees Solo glance up at him, just like he did in the tent. His eyes are bright, piercing, so sharp that they pull a quiet gasp from Armitage, and gone so quickly that he wonders if he simply imagined it. He’s still half asleep, as it is.

A familiar hum draws his attention, and he turns to see the white pickup truck approaching. Canady pulls up next to the group and sticks his head out the window, giving each of them a once-over and then marking something on his clipboard. When everyone is accounted for, he leans back and shouts, “Get workin’ boys, sun’s comin’ up!”. He bangs the driver’s door twice with his palm for emphasis and then, quickly as he came, pulls away.

Armitage realizes with an inkling of dread that he’s right: the sky is now the soft blue of daybreak, tinged pink over the plateaus that line the horizon. Around him, the other boys of Tent B have already spread out and begun. He follows suit, adjusting his grip and then swinging down at the earth.

It’s as if the dirt rejects him altogether. The shovel bounces up, so hard it almost knocks him backward. He again heaves down, and again nearly loses his grip. Speaking logically, he knows this is because the earth is hardened from the sun, and digging up this top layer will be the most difficult part. But there’s a little voice in his chest that insists the desert knows he’s cursed, knows that nothing can be made easy for Armitage Hux.

He huffs, resolute, and takes another swing, this time aiming for a crack in the thick crust. This gives him the leverage he needs, and little by little, he begins to chip away at the desert ground.

By midmorning, most of the boys are well into their holes. They lower themselves down to work at the sides, only popping up occasionally to toss out a shovelful of dirt. Armitage, meanwhile, feels as though he’s barely made any progress at all. There’s a clear ring, five feet across, as long as his shovel, but it’s hardly two feet deep. His fingers and palms are lined with blisters, and no matter how he adjusts his grip on the unforgiving wooden handle, there’s no position that feels comfortable. He drops it, deciding to rest for a moment, and folds to place his hands on his knees and catch his breath.

With the sudden pause in movement, every ache in his body makes itself known. He can even feel the sweat lining his lower back and dripping down his temples, much to his chagrin. Armitage isn’t weak-- he’s spent a lifetime ensuring that. He’s lithe, perhaps, but fitted still with lean muscle. Surely he can dig a hole (or perhaps he really is as useless as his father claims?).

Still gasping for breath, he looks up at the others, and his gaze drifts helplessly to Solo. He must have gotten overheated, at some point, because his jumpsuit is folded down with the sleeves tied around his waist, revealing a white t-shirt beneath. Armitage watches in something like a trance at the steady rhythm of Solo’s movements: downswing, lift, chuck, repeat. He’s practically glowing. Armitage’s belly does a little flip when he turns to grab his canteen, revealing a charming line of dirt streaking across his cheek.

That’s where he catches himself, fortunately. God knows how long he’d been staring, ogling Solo like some middle school girl, out in the open where anyone could have seen. He doesn’t even talk, for Christ’s sake. Something heavy settles in his chest at the realization that Solo, silent as he is, may present more of a threat than any of the friendlier boys.

The white pickup truck returns sometime before noon, though it’s getting dangerously close. Everyone else is very nearly done by now, and Canady commends their work as they form a line behind the truck. There’s spigot for them to refill their canteens, and a pile of saran-wrapped sandwiches. It takes all the willpower left in Armitage not to simple guzzle the entire jug. He’s just over halfway through, and this water will need to last. He sits at the edge of his hole and sips slowly, only looking up when a shadow crosses over him, blocking out the sun.

Poe frowns at his hole, then crouches down beside him.

“Look, Hux-” Armitage doesn’t even give him the chance.

“I don’t need your pity.” He spits, eyes downcast to avoid Poe’s gaze. He can feel the anger rolling off Poe, anyhow.

“It’s not pity, I just, I’m trying to- why can’t you just let someone help you?”

Before Armitage can supply a retort (and what would he even say? That his father told him he was weak and he believed it? That he isn’t worth helping, that he’s cursed?) Finn approaches and lays a hand on Poe’s shoulder.

“Come on, flyboy.” He says, though his eyes are narrowed and fixed on Armitage. “He isn’t worth it.”

Armitage thinks that’s the first time he’s agreed wholeheartedly with any of them. Poe simply nods, and stands to rejoin the group, still huddled around the truck. Only Solo remains separate from the rest, seated at his own finished hole and eating his sandwich like some mirror image of Armitage. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t speak; because, like Armitage, he only opens his mouth to say the wrong thing.

\--

Armitage is the last to finish his hole.

It’s past noon when he finally lays his shovel down flat against the bottom of the hole, ensuring that it’s five feet across. His legs threaten to give out as he heaves himself up into the sunlight. He reaches for his water canteen, then remembers he finished the last drop ages ago. His vision swims.

All the other boys have already walked back to camp, leaving him entirely alone. Armitage isn’t sure he’ll survive the mile and a half back, at least not without passing out, but he can’t very well stand here and wait for the sun to set.  
Before he sets out, he glances once more over his shoulder at the hole. It’s a circle of dirt, he knows, but it’s one foot wider and deeper than the ones around it, and that strikes some chord of pride in him. Maybe not so useless, after all.

By the time he returns to camp, his pride is forgotten. He all but collapses into his bed, kicking his shoes off and peeling out of his socks. He doesn’t want to imagine how he looks at the moment, much less how he smells. The blisters on his hands have opened and reformed, leaving trails of blood across his palms. All he can do is lay there and try to focus on anything but the pain.

There are a few other people in Tent B: that mousy boy with the black hair- Mitaka, he recalls- and Solo. Mitaka is reading a book, while Solo is laying on his back, just staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t even look flushed, and why should he? His hole was done before Armitage had even reached halfway.

“Hey,” says Armitage, pushing up onto his elbows. He wants to sound casual, but his voice cracks a little on the vowel.

Both pairs of eyes snap to him, and he struggles to only meet Mitaka’s gaze. From his periphery, Solo’s eyes are piercing, just as sharp as they had been that morning.

“Where is everyone?”

“Oh, they’re probably showering,” says Mitaka. He dog-ears his page and places the book down at the end of his bed. “There’s a common room, too, with a ping pong table. It’s kind of broken but it can still be fun, if you’ve got the energy for it. Mostly Tent D uses it.”

That’s more information than Armitage cares to know, but he appreciates it nonetheless. He nods briskly, which Mitaka apparently takes as an invitation to continue.

“You did well for your first day, you know. I think it took me until late afternoon to dig my first hole. And I didn’t even have the five foot shovel. That’s impressive.”

“Thanks,” Armitage interjects, hoping to end whatever bonding moment is happening in Mitaka’s head. Solo is still watching silently, and it’s getting more difficult to avoid his gaze. “I think I’ll go take a shower myself.” 

He leaves as quickly as possible, gathering clean clothes and a towel from his trunk and then skirting back out into the sun. Strange, that he should feel safer outside in the baking heat than in the tent with Solo. 

The shower is utilitarian at best, though Armitage feels it’s closer to cruel and unusual. Camp Green Lake suffers from a water shortage, evidently, so every boy is only allowed one three minute shower a day. The water is hardly lukewarm by the end.

The rest of the day proceeds much like last night, with the exception that Armitage does not speak at dinner. Solo sits across the dining hall again, and though Armitage swears he can feel that sharp gaze halfway through the meal, he glances up to find Solo has already left.

That night, Armitage manages to read a bit before lights out. He’d been an avid reader at home, eager to escape his father’s critiques and his own dreary life. There are only a few books in his bag, which he expects to finish quickly, but they’ll have to suffice. Perhaps he can borrow some, when the time comes, though he realizes belatedly that would require befriending someone. Perhaps not. 

As he drifts to sleep, Armitage wonders if he’ll grow as mute as Solo, slowly receding until he’s disappeared entirely. Until no one can see him at all.

Well, almost no one. Solo’s eyes drift to him one more time, just before the lights shut off, and this time, Armitage meets his gaze. His pulse is pounding, stomach coiling with something anxious and hot, but he doesn't look away. They sit there, frozen in the sudden bareness of the moment, until there's a loud _click _and the tent is plunged into darkness.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr! I don't post much but I like to chat with u guys :)  
> arcan-i-help-u.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAAHAHAH okay listen. listen. I have no excuse. This has been written for months but quarantine convinced me to finally just post this shit instead of letting it sit in my google drive purgatory so.... here it is.

Though he’s loathe to admit it, Armitage settles into a rhythm much like the rest of the boys. They wake when the sky is still dark, trudge across the lake, and dig until they’re half dead. Then they trudge back, shower, sleep. Ever-watchful, the hot sun blazes over them, melting one day into the next. It’s as close to miserable as he’s ever been.

Little happens to break the monotony of Camp Green Lake, yet the boys of Tent B remain spirited as ever. While Armitage reads quietly, they tumble around, playing ping pong in the break room and roughhousing and speaking loudly of the girls back home. This last point, in particular, never seems to lose its sheen. Blondes, brunettes, tall girls, short girls, girls with pixie cuts and big hoop earrings and high heels and cropped shirts- all of them waiting just outside of this goddamned desert.

Rarely does this talk concern Armitage, but now and then someone will rope him in, ask for his opinion. Even weeks of determined silence and cold looks have not earned him whatever reputation Solo has that allows him to be left alone. When prompted with some inane question like “pale or dark?” or “thin or thick?”, Armitage simply shrugs noncommittally and says he likes both. This response usually frustrates the other boys, but he doesn’t much care. Better to be accused of liking too many kinds of women, after all, than the weighty truth of not liking women at all.

Worse than the monotony is the digging itself. Some boys had reassured him in the first week that it would get easier, but a month has passed and Armitage has yet to finish a hole before noon. Exhausted and alone, he stumbles back hours after everyone else, missing what little hot water there is, and once even missing dinner. In fact, it feels like he’s getting worse. The blisters on his hands harden into something like calluses, though they’re still tender, and the skin across his nose and at the tips of his ears is always pink with sunburn.

He’s lying back on his cot, panting after a long walk back, when something finally breaks the norm. _Solo speaks._

“You’re too skinny,” he says, and Armitage shoots upright. He almost doesn’t believe it had really been Solo, but there’s no one else in the tent, and he’s just sitting there on his bed, staring with those big eyes.

“Excuse me?” says Armitage, still reeling.

“That’s why you can’t dig as well as anyone else. You’re skinny.”

Well, Armitage could have figured that out on his own, and he says as much.

“Thank you for that genius bit of insight. I thought I was holding the wrong end of the shovel. Where would I be without you?” He flops back down on his bed, irritated that something interesting has finally happened and it’s at his expense. Maybe Solo noticed him gawking one too many times and now he’s paying the price.

There’s a long pause, during which Armitage assumes Solo is finished mocking him. But he never was that lucky.

“You read a lot, too.” says Solo, voice deep but quiet, like there’s something he’s not saying, like there’s something he’s afraid to add. That’s a ridiculous thought that Armitage quickly forces from his mind, though. What the hell does Solo have to fear, looking like that?

Armitage sits up on his elbows and quirks an eyebrow.

“And you’re very observant, for someone who doesn’t speak.”

“I do speak.”

“Clearly.”

Another pause, then:

“You’ve got a sharp tongue. Wouldn’t expect it, seein’ how skinny you are.” He slurs his words in that distinctly Texan drawl, fainter than most of the counselors, but still noticeable.

Armitage starts to roll his eyes, more than fed up with whatever game Solo’s playing, but stops short when he sees the little smirk teasing at the edge of his lips. In this past month at Camp Green Lake, Armitage has never seen him smile.

“Well, Solo, I think you’ll come to find I’m full of surprises.” That’s toeing the line, getting close to something dangerous, he knows, but Armitage think’s it’s worth it for the way Solo’s face lights up with a grin.

* * *

Like everything else at Camp, dinner is constant and reliable. Every evening at exactly five o’clock, the boys make their way to the dining hall, where they’re served the same unidentifiable slop. Once in a blue moon, there’ll be a side of grayish corn, though Armitage is not stupid enough to mistake it for a treat. He’s never seen a vegetable look so likely to get up and crawl off his plate.

The other Tent B boys seem never to tire of Poe’s endless prattling; they spend most of each meal zeroed in on his every word, fascinated by his outrageous tales. Only Solo sits apart, as always, though Armitage wouldn’t dare distinguish himself enough to join him. His cheeks burn merely picturing the way the other boys would gape, and he could hardly imagine what would come once the shock had worn off. Would they taunt him? Find his change of heart encouraging and try to befriend him? The best possibility, he thinks, is that they may avoid him altogether, since they all seemed so fearful of Solo that first night. But even this idea, attractive though the guaranteed solitude is, has its risks. He already walks around feeling too exposed, and he’s downright clumsy in Solo’s presence. Too much time together would surely reveal his… inclinations.

Instead of socializing, he’s taken to reading at dinner, and it’s usually the highlight of his day. He doesn’t return early enough from digging to do anything but take a shower and try to catch his breath. After dinner, most boys head to the common room, or lounge around the tent writing letters to their families. Armitage has no desire to write to his father- he can hardly imagine what he would say.

_Hello father, as you’ve probably already assumed, this desert is hell and I’m absolute shit at everything they ask of me. It’s nothing at all like the brochure- though you didn’t even bother to read it before shipping me away, did you? Sincerely, your cursed, ever-disappointing son, Armitage._

Some letter, indeed.

* * *

Another week passes, and Armitage still hasn’t seen much improvement. Most of the boys finish digging within an hour of each other, and some will wait around to walk back with friends. Armitage has no such experience. Every day he pulls himself up and out of his hole and slumps back to the tent alone, hoping by some miracle his shower will have hot water.

Today should be no different. He finally lays down his shovel a little past noon, judging by the meager shadows forming, and leans back against the wall of the hole. At least he’s getting better at water conservation, he thinks, as he downs the remaining few sips in his canteen. That’s something.

After a short rest, he heaves himself out and stands shakily, glad that no one is around to see the way he’s panting for breath.

“Took you long enough,” comes a voice to his right. A deep voice, threaded with that Texan twang. Shit.

Sure enough, Solo’s sitting with his legs dangling into his own hole, leaning back casually on his hands.

“Thought I was gonna cook myself crazy waitin’ on you.” He says. Armitage frowns, swipes at the sweat on his brow.

“I wasn’t exactly informed I had an audience. Did you forget the way back, or something?” He doesn’t wait for the reply, just snatches up his shovel and starts trudging across the lake. Behind him, Solo stands and dusts himself off, as if he isn’t absolutely filthy. That black t-shirt he wears is about two sizes too small, clinging to his body with sweat. There’s more to that thought-- something about the shoulder length hair he’s pulling back into a low bun, the wisps that fall to frame his face anyhow-- but Armitage pushes it to the back of his mind. Not now, not when he’s alone with Solo and a mile from camp.

Tall as Armitage is, Solo meets his long strides and catches up with him quickly. They walk silently beside each other for a while, Armitage merely trying to control his breathing. Solo, meanwhile, has one hand in his pocket, and looks rather like he’s out for a pleasant stroll.

Armitage breaks the silence eventually.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m walkin’ back to camp.”

He side-eyes Solo and sighs, unimpressed by his feigned stupidity.

“You know what I mean. You haven’t spoken a single word to anyone for God knows how long, the boys in Tent B are terrified to even look your way, and yet you waited hours in the hot sun for me to finish digging so we could-- what, walk together? Why?”

Solo purses his lips, tips his head down as though in thought. When he raises it again and speaks, his voice is softer, almost quiet.

“There’s somethin’ I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

Unsure of what to say, Armitage only nods for him to continue.

“You’re shit at diggin’ holes, but you’re good at reading books.”

“Yes, I believe we’ve established this.”

“Well, I’m good at diggin’ holes, but… I guess I’m pretty shit at reading books. Really shit. As in, uh, not at all.”

That makes Armitage stop short, looking Solo straight in the eyes.

“You can’t read?”

There’s a long pause, during which Solo looks distinctly uncomfortable, but he doesn’t break eye contact. He simply lets out a little puff of air, a soft, “No.”.

“But…” Armitage understands, of course, the exchange that Solo is proposing, but he finds himself searching those dark eyes nonetheless. “....you want me to teach you. And you’ll help me dig, in return.”

Another pause. Something heavy seems to settle between them, though Armitage couldn’t name it.

“Yes.”

He breaks their gaze just to glance over his shoulder at the patchwork holes lining the horizon. It’s probably a bad idea-- no, it is a terrible idea-- but between his aching hands and how absolutely beautiful Solo looks with his hair pulled back like that, what else can he say?

He meets Solo’s eyes once more, nods.

“Okay.”

If anyone notices Armitage and Solo arrive together, it’s not mentioned. The tent is blessedly empty when they return, though Armitage only enters to collect his clothing. Then he’s back out in the sun, walking briskly toward the showers. It’s one thing to lay silently in the same space as Solo-- but to be on speaking terms, alone, with some sort of arrangement between them? That’s another thing entirely.

When he finishes showering, Armitage considers going back to the tent, but decides to err on the side of safety and heads to the common room instead. He’s made a point of avoiding the space in an effort to keep a distance between himself and the others. The last thing he needs, usually, is anyone getting the idea that he wants to be their friend.

Now, however, finding a friend seems to be the smartest move. Having a deal with Solo can be harmless enough, if he’s careful, but it can’t be anything special. Armitage realizes his reputation by now-- he handcrafted it, after all. The frigid loner cannot suddenly befriend someone like Solo without drawing suspicion.

The common room is little more than an abandoned office space, tucked to the side in the same building as the dining hall. It’s innocuous, at first glance, but there are impassioned hoots and hollers coming from within, only slightly muffled by the thick metal door. Armitage doesn’t allow himself to pause long enough to change his mind; he simply turns the handle and enters.

He finds the room much as Mitaka once described: there’s a ping pong table, though one leg is broken and the table slants down at one corner as a result. Two boys are swinging their paddles wildly, the ping pong ball bouncing between them in white streaks. A large group is arguing about something near the far wall, and their voices bounce off the walls and fill the room with sound. Armitage stands there in the doorway stupidly, shoulders hiked up nearly to his ears.

His savior is, of course, Poe Dameron.

“You look like a deer in headlights.” He says, appearing at Armitage’s side. He’s still sporting that warm smile, though it’s stiff with mistrust. Armitage is on thin ice, clearly.

“I’ve just never been to the common room before.” He says, trying desperately to soften his tone. For good measure, he gives a little smirk and adds, “Were you doing something, before you came to rescue me?”

Poe pauses, seemingly taken aback by this newfound sense of humor.

“Yeah, yeah.” He says, and he lifts a hand to point across the room. There’s a small table and a few folding chairs, at which sit Finn and another boy from Tent B. Finn is shuffling a deck of cards. “You play poker?”

Armitage doesn’t, but this is the first time anyone has spoken to him without some degree of shock or fear in nearly a month, so he’ll take what he can get. He knows the basics, anyhow.

“You don’t mind if I join?”

“Why would we mind?” Poe scoffs and leads him toward the table. “Besides, I was getting bored. Finn can keep a straight face, but his tell is a mile wide.” Poe gestures for him to sit, despite the frown Finn shoots him.

“Decided to grace us with your presence, huh?” Finn snips. Armitage shifts in his seat, biting back a comment on how he’s no more pleased about this than Finn is. He scrambles to find something placating- difficult considering how desperately he wants to claw his way out of this room, away from all these people. It feels as though every eye is trained on him, tracking his movements, waiting to pounce at his first error.

“I got curious, I guess.” is what he settles on.

“And lucky for us,” says Poe, cutting in and snatching the cards from Finn’s hands, “because beating you is just too easy.”

His mouth is curved in a wolfish grin, and Armitage is somewhat surprised to see Finn give a little smile in response.

Across from him, the third boy offers a hand.

“Thanisson.” He says simply. Armitage reaches out and gives his hand a brief shake.

“Hux.” They share a look which leans strangely toward understanding, and the knot in Armitage’s stomach unwinds just a little.

Poe shuffles the cards once more, fingers cradling them through a bridge, and then begins to deal. The noise of the room is swelling, the argument by the window getting more heated. There are a million anxieties running through Armitage’s mind: everything from being implicated in the inevitable fist fight that will break out to the danger of befriending Poe Dameron to the deep-seated terror that someone in this room sees him for what he really is. That someone here might _know_ , even without Solo around to throw him off.

“Alright gentlemen,” says Poe, drawing him back to the present moment. Despite everything, despite the noise and the fear, Armitage can’t help but feel comforted by the easy air of the table. Poe taps a rhythm with his fingers, and Finn eyes his cards, and Thanisson cracks his knuckles, and it feels okay. He knows better than to get too close, to lean into it, but for now he’s happy just to settle back in his chair and announce, “Raise.”

* * *

Armitage returns to Tent B a wealthy man, pockets burdened by two extra shower tokens and half a Hershey’s bar. Where the other boys procured these treasures, he couldn’t say. But after a month of grueling labor and self-inflicted solitude, he’s buzzing with joy for such simple pleasures. Tomorrow, he’ll take a nine minute shower. Maybe the water will even heat up, by the end.

His mind is somewhere between milk chocolate and properly washing his hair when Solo startles him from his reverie.

“We should start tomorrow,” he says, not bothering to straighten from his cot, laying leisurely on his back. Armitage stops short, taken aback both by Solo’s abruptness and by the sleeping figure of Mitaka only a few feet away. He shoots Solo a sharp look and gestures to Mitaka.

“Don’t worry, he’s a deep sleeper,” Solo replies, too casual. Armitage huffs and moves to his own cot, bending to pull off his boots.

“No one can know about our… agreement.” He says stiffly. That, at least, seems to gain Solo’s attention. He rolls onto his side and rises, and a small shiver runs down Armitage’s spine. For all his biting words, he knows he could never take on someone of Solo’s size. It excites him, and in turn that excitement scares him.

“You afraid to be seen with me?” asks Solo. His mouth pinches down, brows furrowed. Armitage backtracks.

“No, of course not. I just-” There’s a choice here, an active decision to turn from the truth. _I’m terrified that they’ll see how weak I am for you_ , he wants to say, _that_ you’ll _see it_. The words burn in his throat.

“I just don’t want anyone else to ask for my help.” is what he says instead. “I’m a good tutor, but I won’t have enough time for everyone. You understand?” Believable enough, he thinks, given the delinquency that every boy here probably shares.

Solo’s frown deepens, but he nods.

“You have a plan, then?” he asks. “We could stay up after lights out.”

Armitage’s gut clenches at the thought of sneaking away with Solo alone and in the dark. That’s too dangerous, of course, nearing a precipice that Armitage has no interest in. There would be no explaining themselves if they were caught like that.

“We can’t do after lights out, we’ll never sleep if we do.” He swallows, glances at Solo to ensure he’s bought that sorry excuse before moving on. “We’ll just have to hope that you can help me finish digging early enough to get back before anyone else. You’re always done way before noon, anyhow.”

“As long as you don’t get the five footer again.”

Armitage bristles, but he can see from the light in Solo’s eyes that he’s only teasing.

“I’ve learned since then,” he sniffs.

Solo opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it promptly as Mitaka suddenly grumbles and turns onto his side. He blinks a bleary eye open and looks to Armitage, expression clouded with confusion.

“Were you just talking to someone?” He asks. Armitage shakes his head. He’s too nervous to chance a direct look at Solo, but he can see from his periphery that he’s laying back down, one arm bent to cushion his head, as though nothing had happened.

“No,” says Armitage. “You were probably just dreaming.”

Mitaka nods his ascent, mumbles something about how the dry desert air makes his dreams more vivid, but Armitage is hardly listening. He waits until Mitaka has rolled over to face the canvas wall, then slowly turns to glance at Solo.

Though they’re on opposite sides of the tent, Armitage feels entirely to close the moment they lock eyes. There’s something weighty in Solo’s gaze, something he obviously doesn’t plan to voice aloud. A beat passes, then two, and Armitage knows it’s been too long, that anyone could walk into the tent and see the sin written clear across his face, but he can’t seem to look away. His gaze flickers down to Solo’s lips as he mouths the word ‘ _tomorrow_ ’, then back up to those dark eyes. Armitage nods once, suddenly overwhelmed by the way his stomach twists in guilty knots. He’s so fucked. So terribly, desperately, absolutely fucked.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really have no idea if more chapters are coming, which is frustrating to me when I'm reading a fic and so I very sincerely apologize. I love this story idea, I'm pretty happy with how it's going, but unfortunately my ability to write flips rapidly between up-all-night-typing-a-million-pages and i-can-barely-open-my-computer. I want to finish this though, or get to some kind of satisfying conclusion. I really do. 
> 
> (just saying, even really small comments help motivate!!! dont ask me why its just magic i think)


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